


A Warden Commander's Life

by Galadriel1010



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Amaranthine, F/M, Fluff, Grey Warden Alistair, Vigil's Keep, Warden Commander Mahariel - Freeform, elfebruary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Elfebruary fills for Warden Commander Alarya Mahariel





	1. Lights and Fire

**Author's Note:**

> The first of 28 windows into the life of Warden Commander Alarya Mahariel and her merry band of miscreants.

The wind howled through the trees and scythed down the narrow gorge, whipping ice crystals sharp as blades across every inch of exposed skin. The Warden Commander hauled the log into the cave where they’d taken shelter, her face red from the wind and chest heaving from the exertion, and leaned over it to catch her breath. “Best I could find,” she said through chattering teeth. “Everything else is buried in the snow. Unless this leads to the Deep Roads, we’re not getting back to the Vigil for at least a couple of days.”

“Alarya, it’s as big as you are,” Alistair pointed out. “How did you even get it in here?”

She shrugged. “The usual way.”

“There’s just one problem.” Anders poked it with his staff blade. “It’s soaking. And still covered in snow. Do you know some Dalish technique to set a fire in wet wood, because if not I’d actually rather take my chances with the Darkspawn than wait here.”

“I do, actually. It’s called ‘get a mage to do it’.” She straightened up and started brushing snow off her shoulders, grinning wickedly when it landed on his head and he yelped. “I’ve seen you set fire to some pretty wet darkspawn.”

Nathaniel snorted. “You’re really suggesting that he throw a fireball in here? I’d rather take my chances with the blizzard.”

“Are you saying you don’t think I can do it?” Anders glared across the log. “It’s easy.”

“Well then, please, be our guest. Before we all die of cold.”

Alarya, despite her absolute faith in Anders, stepped away from the log and deeper into the cave. The light from Anders’s staff only spread so far, and the darkness beyond could conceal almost anything. At least they knew it didn’t contain Darkspawn, but they couldn’t rule out bears, giant spiders, Tal Vashoth, maleficar, wolves… Alistair looked down at her and took his hand from his sword to wrap his arm around her shoulder before he returned his gaze to the darkness. “Are you alright?”

“I’m cold,” she admitted. “My face hurts.”

“I told you it was going to snow.”

“And I agreed with you. I just didn’t expect it to snow this much.”

There was a whoosh of magic and fire behind them, and a startled yelp as Anders realised that he shouldn’t have been standing quite so close to the log when he cast the fire spell. Nathaniel helpfully fall onto his back because he was laughing so hard, and Alarya hurried over to help Anders put out the fire in his robes. He did his best to pretend that hadn’t happened, and held his hands out to warm them on the flame. “Well, not bad for a first attempt. It’s burning, isn’t it?”

“It is burning.” The warmth spread through the cave quickly, and the fire’s glow sent flickering shadows dancing far deeper than the light from his staff had. Like this they could see the back wall, which was both reassuring and disappointing. “We’ll make a Keeper of you yet.”

“I’m already a keeper,” he told her haughtily. “Anyway, are there any other Dalish tricks we should try to survive the night? I’ve heard shared body warmth is a good idea.”

She smiled up at him sweetly. “I’m sure Nathaniel will be up for that, if you ask nicely.” They both looked mildly horrified by the idea, but Alistair had stomped over and wrapped his arms around her waist, despite the plate armour, to emphasise her point. “But we’ve done all we can. Find a cave, get the Halla sheltered safely, get a fire lit. You’re the closest thing I have to Halla, so you’ll have to do.”

“You know, I think that’s a compliment.” Nathaniel settled down on the ground again, on the far side of the fire from Anders, and wrapped his cloak around himself tighter. “I imagine it must be hard dealing with weather like this for the Dalish.”

“It is. The best thing to do is avoid it, really. We always came to the north for winter. At least this will pass in a few days, at most. Down in the Korkari Wilds the snow can last for months.”

“I remember one winter we got snowed into the monastery,” Alistair said. “It was so cold you had to break the ice to wash in the morning. Best thing about joining the wardens was being around mages who’d warm it up for you.”

She grinned at Anders. “See, I told… whatever her name was that you’d be useful.”

“Oh goody. Lighting fires and warming Alistair’s washing water. Just what I always wanted to do with my life.” He gestured around. “And we’ve got the perfect cave for it. Just the right level of damp and miserable.”

“That’s the spirit.” Nathaniel shuffled closer to the fire and grinned at him. “Aren’t we lucky having your sunny presence around to keep us all warm in body and spirit?”

Anders sighed. “I need to find out if there’s a spell to stop it snowing when we get back to the Keep. That would be useful right now.”

“I will escort you to the Circle Tower personally if you need to use their library. You can also ask Velanna if she knows the right spell to keep the fire burning longer. I don’t really want to have to go out in the snow to get another one.”

“Velanna probably sets it on fire just by glaring at it.” He huddled deeper into his cloak. “Maybe when we go to see your clan, one of them can teach me instead.”

She blew into her hands to hide a smile. “I’d like that.”


	2. Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Warden patrol returns, led by the Warden Commander's faithful mabari companion. All the patrol are rewarded, in their own ways.

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a fierce Warden warrior?” Alarya Mahariel, Hero of the Fifth Blight and Commander of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, victorious leader in the breaking of the sieges of Redcliffe, Denerim and Amaranthine, knelt on the floor of the throne room and scratched at Fen’hahren’s back with both hands. “Did you send those nasty Daskspawn running? Did you?”

Seneschal Garevel cleared his throat. “We are lucky to have him back in the ranks. Ferelden is in good hands, or paws.”

“I think he deserves a reward, don’t you?” He rolled into his back and she rubbed at his belly obediently. “How should I reward my bravest fighter for driving back the Darkspawn Horde?”

“You do have the right to promote within the ranks,” the Seneschal reminded her. “It is not unheard of for Griffons to be granted titles, for example, and Warden Commander Shiva…”

She laughed. “I was actually thinking of a nice juicy bone, but…” There were no buts about it. Fen’hahren leapt to his feet and bounced around her, barking happily. And loudly. “A bone it is. I will see it done, my noble warrior.” His tail wagged so hard it looked like it was going to fall off.

“We had a mabari when I was a young boy,” Nathaniel said. “I think he was a gift from King Maric to my father. He was an old man, though, and spent most of his days in front of the fire here. None of this having to chase around Amaranthine after rogues and miscreants.”

Fen’hahren growled at the idea of such a boring life.

“Yes, I agree. And may I say, I’m glad to have you by my side, Ser.”

He barked happily.

“Good work, Wardens,” Alarya said, remembering herself at last. “You’ve struck a blow for Ferelden and for the safety of Thedas once more.”

They departed to the barracks with happy smiles, and the sound of laughter and good-natured ribbing soon echoed down the corridor. The tavern would be busy all night, and none of the Wardens or Silver Knights who had returned would need to buy their own drinks. She scratched Fen’hahren behind his ears again and straightened up as familiar foosteps approached across the hall. “Warden Captain.”

Alistair smiled down at her, but stood to attention for his commander’s inspection. “Warden Commander. The men did you proud out there.”

“You always do.” She reached up to rub a smudge of dirt off his armour. “But I can’t tell you how glad I am to have my favourite warrior back by my side.”

His nose scrunched. “Are you talking about Fen’hahren now, or…”

She laughed. “No, I’m not.” After a quick glance to make sure that the Seneschal had made himself scarce, she took another step closer to Alistair. “You’re a fine Captain, Alistair. I’m lucky to have such a strong, reliable man at my right hand.”

“Oh yes? Do I get a reward too?”

“I think you’ve earned one, don’t you?” Without further warning she grabbed hold of the top of his breastplate and pulled him down towards her, surging up onto her tiptoes at the same time to meet him in a heated kiss. His arms went around her waist and their armour clashed together, making both of them laugh. “We need to get this off,” she told him, giggling against his lips until she dropped down onto her heels. “Then I can reward you properly.”

Alistair cupped her face in both hands and leant down to kiss her once more. “Good idea. And we wouldn’t want to cramp their style in the tavern, after all. We’d better leave them to it.”

Fen’hahren thumped his tail on the floor and barked happily.

“No, I haven’t forgotten.” She sighed, resting her hands on Alistair’s arms. “I’d better go to the kitchens first. I’m so glad you’re both back, Vhenan.”

“So am I. Being by your side is the only reward I’ve ever wanted.” He paused to think about that. “But obviously I’m quite looking forwards to tonight’s too.”

She snorted inelegantly. “Yes, I thought you might.”


	3. Insanity

Black mould spread across the walls and ceiling, digging into the stone and rotting it to dust. It crawled over her skin, tangled in her hair, got into her mouth and eyes. Silent whispers in the crushing darkness overwhelmed her. They called out to her and she reached back, fingers clawing through the corruption into the rotten core below. She couldn’t make out voices in the silence, but she knew who they were. Tamlen, Duncan, Marethari, Hahren Paivel, Anders, Nathaniel, Oghren, Alistair... She choked on bile and corruption and realised that the corruption was spreading from her, not the other way around. The blackness roared in her veins, seeped from beneath her fingernails and bled from the welts she left in her skin, then bit into the world around her and consumed everything and everyone she touched. She struggled against it to flee from them, to protect them, but it held her tight.

She sobbed into the darkness and pushed against it feebly, but the more she pushed the tighter it held her. In the end, exhausted, she gave up fighting and embraced it. The darkness overwhelmed her and she fell forwards into its embrace, into the madness of the Blight sickness.

As she tumbled down into the darkness, the voices became clearer. The weight of blame and grief pressed in on her from all sides, piled high with every mistake she’d made, every wrong step, every failure. There was a long list, after all. She curled in on herself and tugged at her hair, named the places she couldn’t save. Crestwood drowned, West Hill overrun, Gwaren abandoned to its fate, the Chasind Wilders forgotten and scattered, Lothering left behind, Haven slaughtered at her hand. Redcliffe, late, Denerim, late, Amaranthine, late.

Realising she was in the clutches of a nightmare hardly made it easier to bear when it had so much reality to throw at her. But every time she embraced it she felt the darkness bite deeper, felt the mistakes become that little bit easier to live with. Felt herself become like the Warden Commanders of old, willing to do whatever it took, no matter the cost, to defeat the Blight. She saw herself clearly, cast in shining silverite at the head of her army, leading them to their deaths whilst she watched from afar once more.

If she had known this was what awaited her, would she have left with Duncan? Would she have survived the Joining if she had seen her future? Or would she have wielded the knife herself?

After what felt like an age she managed to drag in a desperate gasp of air. Her grasping hands found purchase at last and she dragged herself into the cold, grey light of another dawn. Cold sweat beaded on her bare skin, making her shiver in a draught that stirred through the room. She could still hear the whispers at the back of her mind, drawing her back into the darkness that had awaited her ever since she found the Blighted eluvian.


	4. Trust

There was a small band of hurlocks led by a lone emissary camped in the gulley, doing whatever it was Darkspawn did when they we’re rampaging through Ferelden and destroying everything they found. It seemed they’d been there some time, judging by the wilted and desiccated plants that still clung to the steep rocky banks and the pile of bones thrown into a corner, still held together in places by strips of flesh and fabric. The Wardens had first been alerted to a problem by a wave of sickness in the valley downstream, entire families falling prey to the Blight sickness months after the last Darkspawn sighting. Anders fought for two weeks to save as many as he could, and when the Warden Commander told him she’d found the source of the infection she didn’t even need to ask him to follow her.

She was at his side now, five foot nothing of seriously pissed off elf glaring down into the gloom. On her other side was Alistair, as always. He had drawn that ridiculous starmetal sword and stabbed it into the ground, and was crouching down so he could lean further over. On the far side of the gulley Sigrun was edging into position with Velanna and Nathaniel behind her, taking up their appointed spots on a rocky outcrop. Anders tightened his grip around his staff and let its light flare a little brighter.

“Time,” Alarya said quietly. “Anders, light them up.”

He gave her a jerky nod, raised his staff into the air, and rained down fire on the Darkspawn encampment. Their screams and snarls rent the air, louder and fiercer when Velanna joined in and her lightning arched from one to the next, sparking off their armour and digging into paralysed limbs. They let it build to a crescendo and then, at the last moment, cut it off. The Darkspawn had no time to regroup before Alarya and Alistair were barrelling into the camp from one side, shields smashing hurlocks left and right, and Oghren scythed in from the other with Justice close behind him to cut off any retreat up the gully. Oghren’s axe swept in crazed arcs and ripped through them, scattering black blood everywhere. Up on the rise, the two hurlocks who had managed to escape the onslaught to reach the emissary turned back to find Sigrun wrenching her daggers from its back and her grin heralding their own impending doom.

Each of them fell to an arrow through the throat, as did the last Hurlock that was making a staggering retreat down towards the town. From the first lick of fire to the last thud of a body hitting the ground had taken a few minutes. Even Oghren was unhurt, much to his displeasure.

Anders leaned on his staff and watched the idiot dwarf attempt to scale the steepest part of the gully, whilst Alarya, Alistair and Justice pushed the Darkspawn out of the beck and strolled up the more gentle incline. “Well, I think they got the message,” he said, offering Alarya a hand to help her up the last scramble. Nathaniel was trailing behind Velanna in a way that suggested he’d made the mistake of trying the same thing with her, but Alarya accepted Ander’s hand and nearly pulled him down on top of her. Not that he would have minded, but Alistair was right behind her.

“We did good work here,” she agreed. “Can you two make sure the bodies are thoroughly burned, if we get them up here away from the water? There’s a storm coming in, so the river should be safe again soon.”

He didn’t ask how she knew that. The sky was clear, the first few stars appearing as it darkened, but Alarya always knew what was coming. Velanna just nodded in agreement and gestured up the hill behind them. “I suggest we make camp in the clearing, Lethallin. There is not enough light for us to return to town safely.”

“Scared of the dark, Velanna?” Anders laughed at her glare. “Oh really, would you rather camp out here in a clearing with a storm coming in, or burn the Darkspawn so hot they melt and haul your pretty arse back to the tavern?” The village was so small it barely even had a name, but it had a clean enough tavern (even if your standards were higher than Anders’s) with its own orchard, both of which promised a better night than could be found listening to Oghren snoring.

Nathaniel, chivalrous as ever, stepped in before Velanna could immolate Anders. “The path back down to the village will be treacherous in the dark.”

“Then we’d better get those Darkspawn dealt with,” the Warden Commander said. Anders could always rely on her to go for the option that allowed her and Alistair a bed and a locked door. “Come on, they’re not going to burn themselves.”

Anders clasped his hands over his chest and bowed in the Wardens’ salute, and strolled off to mark out a space for the burning. They laughed and jostled each other, tugged the bodies up onto the cleared area, and passed around a flask of Blight Wine whilst the white hot flames consumed them. The heat brought a flush to their faces, lit by the flames, and Anders couldn’t fight the warmth in his chest. Belonging, togetherness, trust. He caught Velanna watching him and smiled at her sweetly. “See something you like?”

She scoffed. “You’re hogging the flask. Pass it on, shem.”

He threw it across the fire to her. “If you think you can handle it, my lady.”

Oghren belched, Alarya and Sigrun accepted the challenge, Alistair and Nathaniel rolled their eyes, Justice looked as bewildered as ever. Anders turned his back on the fire and set off down the hill. “Last one to the bar buys the drinks.”

It would probably be him, but it was so worth it.


	5. Locked

The chest was plain and battered, dark wood bound with copper straps that were starting to go green at the edges. It was just large enough to hold a journal, or perhaps a family’s meagre savings, and had been placed on one of the dining tables in the great hall, illuminated by a bright glow light instead of a flickering candle. Alarya turned the lock pick ever so slightly, a deep frown of concentration marred by the adorable way she scrunched her nose and the way she bit her lower lip. Her expression pulled her vallaslin even more into the shape of a heart, and Alistair, with a deep sigh and a familiar happy ache in his chest, wondered how anyone had ever found her intimidating.

The bony elbow jabbing into his ribs ruined the moment and snapped him out of his reverie, just as Alarya got the first lock opened and her face lit up with a delighted smile. Next to her, Sigrun clapped her on the back and turned the sand timer onto its side. “Fastest yet, boss.”

“You were staring again,” Anders told him in that irritating sing-song voice. “Can’t take your eyes off her, can you?”

“She…” He trailed off and sighed. “No, of course not. Can you blame me?”

Anders leaned against the pillar next to him and looked over at the two women. Alarya had turned her attention to the second lock and Sigrun had started the timer again. “Not really,” he admitted. “You’re one lucky bastard, you know that?”

“Oh believe me, I know.” How could he not? She was bent over the box again, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth now as she gently coaxed the mechanism into opening for her. Her hair was loose and tumbled down to her shoulders, longer now than she’d kept it during the Blight and with a soft bounce and curl to it that framed her lovely face. Her delicate hands that handled the locks so deftly were just as skilled wielding a sword or bow, and… he blushed.

Cutting himself off didn’t help, because Anders could clearly read his mind. “So, is she as good in bed as she is in battle?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” Anders crowed, and Alistair quite wanted to hit him. “Lucky bastard indeed.”

“What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Alistair and Alarya’s sex life.”

Nathaniel nodded, as if that was a normal thing for Anders to say. But then it was Anders, so it probably was. He propped himself against the pillar on Alistair’s other side and turned to watch Alarya and Sigrun working. “Was he staring again?”

“Like Fen’hahren when he gets into the kitchens.” He nudged Alistair again, slightly more gently this time. “You know she looks just the same when you’re training, right?”

He couldn’t help it, he got over the teasing immediately and perked up. “Really?”

Nathaniel snorted. “A bit more like she’s going to rip all of your clothes off, but yes.”

He knew there was a reason he put up with Alarya’s idiots.


	6. Skill

The sounds of busy industry echoed off Vigil’s Keep’s granite walls under the blazing sun and the watchful eye of Master Voldrik. Workmen winched another finely carved granite block into place in the damaged section of wall, sealing up the breach the darkspawn had left a little more every day. Down below, Alarya and Alistair circled each other watchfully, chests heaving with exertion. They’d gathered quite a crowd to watch them at work, mostly young children of castle employees and the families that lived close to the Vigil, who loved to hang around and watch their heroes in action. The children seemed to have split into two groups, one cheering on each of the warriors with Anders and Oghren encouraging them in turn.

Sigrun rolled her eyes and joined her comrades at the rail just as half the children let out a cheer and the other half groaned. She reached out to scratch Fen’hahren behind his ears and he spared her a glance and a happy yip before turning his attention back to the training session. “What do you think, Fenny? How are they doing?”

He wuffed, thumping his tail on the ground approvingly.

“Come on you nug licking arse scratchers,” Oghren bellowed, continuing his education of the children of Amaranthine. “Alistair, you sack of bronto shit. Knock her on her arse like you did last night.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be cheering on the Commander?” she asked. “No, wait, it’s Oghren. Pretend I didn’t ask.”

Anders laughed. “I’ve just been switching to whoever he isn’t berating. Saves me from deciding who’s looking the prettiest in that leather armour.”

She knew she shouldn’t ask and yet found herself doing so. “Would you really describe Alistair as pretty?”

“Well, not in front of the commander. But come on, you’ve seen those muscles. On both of them.” He sighed happily. “Wouldn’t mind watching, let alone…”

Fen’hahren growled, but his tail betrayed him by thumping happily against the floor.

“I know, I know, I’m terrible.” He winked at her. “You like it, though.”

She made a disgusted noise that, she hoped, told him exactly how much she did not like it, and in the training square Alistair used his height advantage to force his commander back into a corner, drawing a cheer from the increasingly confused crowd.

“She’s about to flatten him,” Anders said. “Bet you a sovereign.”

Sigrun wasn’t fool enough to take that bet. Alistair had Alarya well on the back foot and was keeping her there, not giving her a chance to get her balance back and push back on him. It was a sure sign that she was about to get under his guard.

It seemed that Alistair knew it too, though, because he backed off suddenly and, with the space he’d given himself, swung his sword in. Alarya had no problem getting her shield up to block it, and she darted into the space he’d opened up. The next moves were too quick for even Sigrun to make out, but then Alarya’s sword was tumbling into a cloud of dust and Alistair had her pinned against the rail again, laughing with delight. The children all cheered, whichever side they’d picked, and Fen’hahren barked approvingly.

“Traitor,” Alarya called across to him with mock hurt. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

The mabari danced on the spot and barked at her again, and she laughed at his antics. Whilst they gathered up their training weapons and grabbed a ladle of water from the barrel each, Sigrun hauled herself up onto the top rail of the fence so she was finally taller than Anders. “Do you ever watch them and think…”

“I think a lot of things when I watch them, but probably not whatever you’re about to say.”

She sighed. “Do you ever watch them and think, ‘Did the Archdemon ever stand a chance?’?”

Anders chuckled. “Oh, that. Yes, sometimes. When I can fit it in.”

“You’re awful and I hate you.” She grinned. “Sparring session? No magic, staffs only.”

“Loser buys the drinks.”

She leapt down again into the ring, glaring a couple of young soldiers back out the way they’d just entered. “You’re on.”


	7. Bored

There was a bucket in the middle of the great hall, left there to catch the leak from the roof that the darkspawn invasion had left. A servant came to switch it out with an empty one and took the full bucket away to empty it out of the window. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and the air was thick with the smell of wet furs, wet leather and wet dog. Anders wrinkled his nose as he picked his way between the tables back to where the Wardens were playing cards. Sigrun and Nathaniel were eyeing each other warily, Velanna was doing her best to be above it all, Oghren had long since pissed off to the tavern, and Alistair and Alarya were far more interested in each other than their cards. Anders’ own hand was waiting for him to join them, and Fen’hahren was wagging his tail impatiently. “I’m coming, boy,” he assured him. “Let me get settled down and you can look at the cards.”

He wuffed happily and scratched his ear.

“I’ve always wondered,” he admitted as he arranged his robes as well as he could on a rickety wooden bench, “what do the Dalish do when you get bored?”

Velanna snorted. “We don’t. There is always work to be done in a Dalish camp. We don’t have servants to wait on us.”

“Ah of course.” He picked up his cards and nshowed them to Fen’hahren. “You don’t have solitary confinement either, I keep forgetting that.”

Sigrun wrinked her nose, looking between the two of them warily. “We didn’t have either in Dusttown, but not a lot else either. It was light was the problem for us. If you couldn’t afford fire wood, what were you supposed to do?”

“I used to get bored when I was at the monastery. I hated it there, and it was so quiet.” Alistair shuddered. “I think you have to be pretty weird to become a Templar. I’ve not been bored since I joined the Wardens, that’s for certain.”

“It is,” Nathaniel agreed. “Although perhaps that’s the company.” He glanced over at Velanna and quickly dragged his gaze back to the Warden Commander. “Are you ever bored, my lady?”

She chuckled. “Never bored. Although I do worry at times that I’ve forgotten something.” Her eyes flicked beyond the table, checking for eavesdroppers. There were things she didn’t want known outside the Wardens, and things she didn’t want even them to know. Her vallaslin and the life she’d lived made her look older than she was, made it easy to forget that she and Alistair were still so painfully young to have had so many lives resting on their shoulders, to carry the burden of command she did. She shifted closer to Alistair and looked down at her cards to hide her discomfort. “Velanna is right, there’s always something to be done in a Dalish camp. The Aravels always need fixing, the Halla need constant attention, we make our own arrows, clothes need repairing, traps preparing for hunts, you’re always on your guard, and I looked after the children a lot.”

“You like children?”

“Not really.” She laughed. “But I was young and I had learned all the stories from Hahren Paivel, so it fell to me.” Her face softened again and she rested her chin on her hands. “I used to love days like this, when it rained for so long you ran out of jobs you could do, and I could lie in the aravel with the rain pattering on the canvas. It was peaceful like nothing else.”

Alistair was watching her with his usual soft lovestruck expression. “That does sound wonderful.”

She hummed happily. “It was. Until it stared dripping,” she laughed.

“I miss it,” Velanna said quietly. “The nights around the fire under a clear sky, doing small repairs whilst Hahren Arianne told our stories again. I knew them all by heart, but I never tired of hearing them.”

Alarya replied softly in elven and Anders looked away. He wasn’t the only one. For all their similarities, the two elves were a world apart. Velanna didn’t have the comfort of knowing that her old clan was just a short journey away, after all. It was a constant reminder that the Commander led them by choice, and Velanna followed because she had nowhere else to go.

With unusually good timing, Nathaniel realised it was his turn to chip in. “I’ve certainly not been bored since I left the Free Marches. Nothing can compete for tedium with memorising troop movements from Orlesian military history.”

Alistair held his hand up. “I’ve got one. Reciting Trials 12 in full.”

“Twelve? No one does twelve,” Anders laughed. “It takes about a year to say absolutely nothing.”

“I know, right?” He pointed at the door. “This is why Templars are all so miserable and boring, because Trials twelve sucks the life out of you like a life sucking thing.”

He covered his ears. “Stop it, I can’t bear it. You’re making me feel sorry for Templars!”

Even Velanna cracked a smile at that, and Anders allowed himself a moment of smug victory before the conversation moved on and the game resumed.


	8. Opposites

****

Sigrun watched the two elves talking, and tried to make it look like she wasn’t watching them. She’d never met an elf before the Warden Commander, although she’d seen a couple down in Dusttown, mercenaries working for the Carta. They had been cruel, all sharp lines and sharp words, tightly wound anger to be unleashed on whatever target they picked. It took a lot, she imagined, for an elf to decide that Dusttown was their best option. One of the few things that Velanna and Alarya has in common was their discomfort with indoors. She didn’t understand it herself. How could they feel safe with that much sky above their heads?

Her Warden sisters are as unlike each other as they are unlike those mercenaries. Velanna is taller, slender and graceful like the first snowdrops of spring. Nathaniel watches her the way Sigrun watches him and so she sees Velanna like he does. She’s as cold as the mercenaries, but without their cruelty. Her hair is fair like winter’s sunshine and reminds Sigrun of King Bhelen’s, and her eyes are as blue as morning’s sky. She holds herself rigid and aloof, spine spear-straight, eyes always a little bit distant.

Alarya is brighter in spirit, but darker in colouring. Her eyes and hair are both brown, she’s barely taller than Oghren, and even out of her armour she’s powerfully built. She bears the weight of a world that doesn’t want her on broad shoulders, plays the part of the Hero of Ferelden and the Arlessa of Amaranthine when they need her and weathers the barbed words and harsh comments when they don’t. Elves have flocked to the battered region from across Thedas to live under the rule of the only elven noble, and it’s caused friction. Alarya puts herself between the humans and elves, allows herself to be the one burned and crushed between them without complaint. Her stoicism is armour, though, as much a part of her as her iconic Silverite plate. Even Ferelden nobles pause when they see it coming, but when she removes it she’s just Alarya underneath, as soft and squishy as ever.

Maybe that’s why Alistair is always smiling, and Nathaniel isn’t yet.

They’re up on the wall, looking out across the river and down towards the coast. Alarya touches Velanna’s arm and points out to the distance, straightening up from her casual lean over the walls. That’ll be Alistair, Anders and Nathaniel returning from their trip into Amaranthine. The Warden Commander will greet them at the gate and ask for a report, and then in the hall Alarya will hug them all and demand all the gossip. She’s tactile – that’s a good word that Velanna taught her, tactile. It fits Alarya perfectly and Velanna not at all. Alarya is always picking things up, running her finger along the spines of books in the Vigil’s library, touching people on the arm to draw their attention down to her, petting Fen’hahren and the other mabari warhounds at the Vigil, and always touching Alistair. Velanna keeps her staff in a white-knuckled grip and tolerates Alarya’s exuberance, but no one else’s. Sigrun can’t imagine her ever thawing enough to get lost in someone’s eyes like Alarya does, or allowing anyone to see her take the comfort of another person’s arms.

Not that that’s a bad thing. Alarya and Alistair are still lost in the wonder of young love and the joy of living and that works for them. Not everyone is like that. But still…

It would be nice to see Nathaniel and Velanna half as happy as Alarya is as she runs down the steps to the courtyard.


	9. Spirit

Justice found the Warden Commander in her office in the Vigil, poring over a map of the area with Alistair and Garevel. They were already looking up expectantly, presumably forewarned by the smell they so often complained about. It stiffened Justice’s resolve. “Warden Commander,” it said, bringing Kristoff’s body to a stiff attention. “I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. Do you have time later today?”

She watched them carefully for a moment, then nodded to herself and looked to her Seneschal and Captain. “We can resume this later. Garevel, would you have Nathaniel and Anders look in the archives for any reference to the village before the Blessed Age.”

“Of course, Warden Commander.”

Garevel left them first, departing with a stiff bow, and then Alistair, who left his Commander with a gentle brush of his fingers against the back of her hand. The Warden Commander was still smiling when she settled back into her seat and turned to face Justice. “So,” she said. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

Justice had taken to wearing full armour at all times. It made it easier for the mortals to handle, it seemed, although most were discomfited by being unable to make eye contact. In deference to the situation, though, Justice made sure that the door was closed and then removed its helmet. The Warden Commander inhaled sharply, and her eyes wandered over Kristoff’s face. Her expression said it all, really. Time was running out.

“It has been an honour to serve with the Grey Wardens and see the Darkspawn scourge driven from these lands, Commander, but I believe that the time has come for me to depart. Kristoff’s body must be returned to Aura and cremated with the dignity and honour befitting a Grey Warden.” She simply inclined her head in agreement and allowed Justice space to gather its thoughts, for which it was grateful. “There was so much of this world I did not understand when I was first trapped here. Mortal emotions are complicated and messy. I did not understand how you could strive for so much in one person. I feel like I understand better now. You are a great woman, and I have seen in you a shining sense of justice that calls to me. But within you burns also the lights of wisdom, courage, hope, trust, love, grace… All spirits of the Fade could call to you and hear their call returned in you.”

She smiled at that. “I have my demons, too. Pride, rage, lust.” Her smile became complicated but she continued. “We all do.”

“You do. And yet you have not been corrupted. That is worthy of respect. I leave here confident in the knowledge that you will continue the fight for justice, for your people and for all people, as you have since the day you took up my fight for the souls in the Blackmarsh. Perhaps with your influence I will find myself less alone in the Fade once I return there.”

“I hope so.” She got to her feet at last and, for once, looked down on it. “I’ll ask Geravel to arrange the cremation. Kristoff will receive full Grey Warden rites. Is…” She hesitated slightly then. “Is there any honour you would like? I would not like to see you leave without recognition, but I do not know what honour I can give you. Your armour will be returned to Weisshaupt, to stand with the Grey Wardens of old.”

It shook its head. “Keep it here for me, with my sword. Perhaps one day I shall need it again.”

“I hope I will not live to see it, but if I do I will be honoured to fight at your side once more.”


	10. Deception

Golden sunlight bathed the stone flags of the library from the narrow slit windows, carefully positioned to avoid the risk of it damaging the thousands of leather bound tomes. The entire history of the Grey Wardens was here, transcribed by meticulous hands over and over again. Alarya had never been comfortable in libraries, even the Vigil’s relatively modest one, but it was somehow worse to be surrounded by her forebears like this. Great Grey Wardens who had served with courage and honour, who had built their order. Their lives and stories had been recorded by archivists. The fourth Blight alone had stretched for more than ten brutal years, and every year made up at least a dozen thick tomes. There were four dedicated to Garehel alone, not counting the three volumes of songs and poems written about him during and after the Blight.

She didn’t know how long her own account would stretch to. It had taken days, but whether that was down to how poorly she’d told the story or simply how poorly she’d led, it was hard to say. The Wardens recording her story had reminded her of Master Ilen after another of her and Tamlen’s foolish adventures. They regarded her with disappointment, the rest regarded her with suspicion.

She was, after all, the first Grey Warden to survive killing the Archdemon. In the eyes of the Wardens, that was abject failure.

The curved horns that arched above Garahel’s memorial were like a beacon, calling her down the long hall. They towered above her, and her heart began hammering as she remembered seeing Urthemiel above her on the roof of Fort Drakon. She’d been focussed mostly on the teeth, the rancid breath, the overwhelming, crushing wrongness, and the blasts of magical fire that could wipe her out instantly. And always the fear that Morrigan was wrong, or that it wouldn’t matter because one of the Darkspawn would reach her and Alistair before she could reach the Archdemon. Or worse, that they would only reach Alistair, and she would lose him.

Garahel’s armour lay in state, as it had for two ages. She traced her finger around the edge of one of the tiny panes of glass, but couldn’t bring herself to touch it or even look on the armour. He was a hero, to the Wardens, to the Free Marches, to elves everywhere. And she had sullied his legend with her survival. “If the story were mine to tell,” she whispered, “or if I thought by betraying the trust placed in me I could save even one of our brothers and sisters, I would do it.” He had no answers for her, of course. Only more silent judgement.

Alarya let her hand fall to her side again and ducked her head to hide her stinging eyes from the long-dead hero.


End file.
